


Wednesday December 25th 2019

by Quanna



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 08:15:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2844233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quanna/pseuds/Quanna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The emotional value of Christmas presents isn’t exactly foreign to him. He grasps the concept of a festive period well enough, and understands why humans would want to share it with him.</i><br/>The Doctor isn't feeling too well. Luckily, the TARDIS knows exactly where to take him. It's Wednesday, after all.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday December 25th 2019

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend, and posted with their permission. Merry Christmas!
> 
> trigger warning for a brief, implied mention of child abuse. It's really just one line, but please take care.

 

The psychic feedback from earlier is making his head swim with noise, pressing outwards inside his skull and compelling him to rest his forehead against her frame. Despite his body temperature, he’s freezing, breath coming out in puffs through his nose. The rain isn’t making it any easier; getting into his eyes and blurring his vision further as he fumbles with the key. After a few desperate attempts, the door creaks open, and with his support gone he falls inside with an undignified splosh.

She shuts the doors and immediately reaches out to help him, relief flooding his system as she takes away the pressure on his mind. The noise gradually fades to a mild throbbing, his thoughts returning to him in a scrambled heap. He thanks her wordlessly and drags himself up by the railing, feeling her concern flow into amusement at his dripping hair and soaked-through clothes. He glares at her rotor and she hums back apologetically in response.

Why did they ever get rid of that hat stand? Draping his drenched coat neatly on the railing instead, he notices the muddy wet smears on the floor and apologises. She answers with the mental equivalent of a long-suffering sigh, the tracks already fading behind him. Mismatched tartan socks appear as he frees his feet from his boots, leaving them to dry at the console. He hops down the stairs to the corridor, a trail of slightly damp prints behind him.

“Let’s go somewhere warm next, hhm?”

 

*

 

Dry but still cold, he returns a while later with a large mug of tea. This time round, he likes being physically close to her core, and so he settles down at his new desk on the maintenance level below the console. She’s left a blanket on the chair, and he wraps himself in it, drawing his knees up to his chest. A mere couple of weeks in this body, but he has sat here sipping sugary tea more times than he can remember.

Frustrated, he grabs a screwdriver from the desk and taps it gently against the work surface. The grip has a nice smooth texture, and he toys with it for a while, enjoying the soft repetitive sounds. Gradually the throbbing behind his eyes subsides and he sighs, tension leaving his body. He doesn’t remember it ever being as bad as this, but he doesn’t have the experience yet to tell if anything is seriously wrong. Maybe with a new cycle, psychic senses just need a little more time to adjust. And if not, well-

-she nudges him, and he drops the screwdriver on the table, gathering the blanket around him to go take a look at the scanner.

They’re drifting in the vortex, but she’s aiming for London, Earth.  
He shakes his head in mock annoyance. “I hope it’s summer.”

Her engines wheeze and groan in reply, the characteristic bump a moment later signifying their arrival. She’s not giving anything away, but he can tell she’s pleased with the location. He shrugs off the blanket and pulls on his boots, grabbing his (thankfully already dry) coat on the way out.

Expecting a busy rainy street, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise when the TARDIS doors open into a darkened living room. By the streetlight peaking through the curtains, he’d say early twenty-first century. A vague smell of pine tree and cinnamon lingers in the air and it tickles his nose: he knows that smell. Alarmed, his more attuned time senses flare up: he should not be here. Trusting her instincts more than his own even on a good day, he suppresses them without a second thought.

Thick carpet muffles the sound of his feet as he steps out into the homely living room. Bookshelves line the wall opposite, golden tinsel draped on the top row. Christmas cards hide most of the titles, and he can see a chocolate advent calendar at knee height, every flap lifted and empty except for one. Colourful decorations glimmer in the tree across the room, the warm glow of the TARDIS reflecting in the baubles. A dining table occupies most on the other space, matching playpen and high chair pushed against the photograph-covered wall behind it.

He walks towards the tree but inevitably gets distracted by a stack of papers on the corner of the table. It’s boring paperwork filled out in a neat, curly handwriting, and he flicks through it quickly without interest. Some bills, a flier for a restaurant, and a few printed emails concerning ‘foster care for Green siblings’. He starts reading the last ones, curiosity peaked, but stops as soon as he reaches the name of the addressee.

Of course he recognises this place. It may be a different flat but it has her name all over it, right down to the festive smell. In one fluid motion he folds the print-outs and slides them underneath the rest of the papers. A lifetime ago, reading on would have delighted him; another bit of the mystery discovered. Now he just feels like he’s reading his best friend’s diary. Still, he can’t help but smile down at the papers; evidence that they stopped before their addiction became life threatening.

He can’t help but go over to the wall covered in pictures, either. Apart from her mum (three times), gran (three times), dad (twice), and stepmother (just once), he does not recognise anyone. There’s a child (four times), a little older in every frame, proudly blowing out ten candles in the least discoloured one. A school photograph next to it, showing a long haired teenager sporting a black eye while (reluctantly) pretending to smile through swollen lips. A ginger toddler with tomato sauce on its face; a sleeping baby, and the teenager again (without bruising), triumphantly holding up their GCSE results.

The most recent picture is still unframed, stuck to the wall at a perfect angle with blu tag. She’s kissing another woman, the ginger toddler playing on the floor and the baby in her arms. He grins triumphantly, hearts glowing. His apology produced the desired result: no more invented boyfriends.

There are pictures of him, too, and his eyes widen when he sees them. His old (young) body, covered in mud and grinning at the camera, fluorescent-green candyfloss masking his chin. Stupid invasion on a stupid day. His young (old) body seems ecstatic waving a blurry banner at a concert, but he doesn’t remember it yet.

He walks over to the tree, crouching down to take a look at the presents scattered round the trunk, all wrapped in elegantly-patterned Christmas paper. Mostly books, guessing by their shape and size, although the two bigger ones are obviously a colouring set and a plush toy. Drumming his fingers rhythmically against the side of his face, he sits back on his heels, eyes falling onto a silver packet on top of the others. Different colour and different shape to the others; he cannot tell what is inside. Intrigued, he reaches for it. It’s soft in his hands, the unsupported bits flopping over the side. He turns it over.

And freezes when he sees his name.

The emotional value of Christmas presents isn’t exactly foreign to him. He grasps the concept of a festive period well enough, and understands why humans would want to share it with him. For a species with a short lifespan they devote a disproportionate amount of time to commemorating the past. Secretly, he appreciates their concern that one day their minds may betray them.

A baby starts crying down the hallway, and he grabs his present, making his way back to the TARDIS as quietly as he can. Although none of the inhabitants of this house would be surprised to find him sneaking around their living room in the middle of the night, he would rather avoid the meeting.

The TARDIS hums a greeting as he comes in, clearly satisfied he managed to find what she sent him for. He asks her to take off slowly and quietly, inputting coordinates for her favourite random spot in the vortex. It’s the place she likes to go to relax somewhat, and because she likes it, he likes it too.

He waits until they get there before he plays with the idea of opening his present. The Christmas wrapper glows slightly in the console room light as the rotor slows to move in time with his breathing. Careful not to dig his nails in in case it is fragile and needs protecting, he peels off the two bits of tape holding the packet together.

The wrapping paper quickly becomes a messy ball on the floor, and he vows telepathically to pick it up later. Ah. Underneath is another layer of wrapping paper. He really should have seen this coming; she loves cheap pranks.

After a small struggle with the rest of the wrapper, he takes the gift in his hands and folds it out, holding it up. It’s perfect, of course it’s perfect. A fluffy black jumper with tiny holes in it, arranged like the night sky. Excited, he threads his fingers through some of the holes, linking them together and smiling up. With a practiced move, he dumps his coat on the floor , and slips his arms through the jumper’s sleeves. It sits snug against his body, sleeves just long enough and neck not too high. He skips a loop around the console, delighted with the feeling of the soft fabric on his hands. He swings his arms and does a few star jumps, appropriating the jumper, still getting used to the idea that this is him and this is his now.

In a flash of inspiration he picks up his coat from the floor and dons it over his shoulders again, spreading his feet and standing up straighter, hands on his hips. The TARDIS hums in approval, tickling his mind with her appreciative giggle. He grins at her, all cheeky and toothy; fully aware she was in on it from the beginning.

“Let’s go see her,” he asks, still smiling. “It must be Wednesday somewhere.”

He hugs himself as they land, finally warm and a little more comfortable in his own skin.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the result of way too many headcanons a friend and I came up with post S8.  
> I have a lot of feelings about Twelve, his telepathy, his jumpers, and his friendship with Clara.
> 
>  
> 
> come say hi to me on [Tumblr](http://theactivepresent.tumblr.com/).


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